The Empty Box
by chazper
Summary: A Cohen 1 Chrismukkah fic. Post series finale. Part 4 of 4. Complete. All characters belong to Josh & company.
1. Chapter 1

The Empty Box 

"She's asleep. Finally."

With an exhausted sigh, Kirsten sank into the sofa, wedging herself comfortably into the space between Ryan and Seth.

"Yet another cause for Thanksgiving." Sandy grinned as he strolled out of the kitchen. He carried a mug of cocoa topped with a dollop of whipped cream that he sprinkled with chocolate shavings from the dish that Seth was guarding jealously. "For the tired mama," he announced, presenting it to Kirsten with a kiss.

She wrapped her hands around the cup gratefully. "The tired, contented mama," she amended. "This--" Her smile, weary but luminous, swept from Sandy to Seth and then to Ryan, gracing each of them in turn. "Has been a perfect day. The most wonderful Thanksgiving since . . . No. I think it's been the most wonderful Thanksgiving Day ever."

Seth swiveled around with mock-amazement. "What?" he demanded around a mouthful of turkey sandwich. His mother frowned, and he swallowed hastily. "But Mom, there were no homeless people here. No squabbling ex-es. No excitement. Not even any burnt food or Chinese take-out. Just us. And Sophie didn't even cry during dinner."

"I know." Kirsten ruffled his hair fondly. "Of course, I'm sorry that Summer and Taylor couldn't make it. But I have to admit, having just family this year--I thought it was perfect." She handed Seth a napkin, gesturing at his chin. "Mustard," she explained.

He swabbed carelessly at the spot. "Dude," he pleaded, leaning over his mother to enlist Ryan's support. "Tell her. It's not a traditional Cohen clan holiday without some kind of drama—you know, an unexpected guest or a surprise announcement or something. This . . . well, this was all Norman Rockwell cozy and everything but, come on. It was a little boring."

Ryan peered up over the rim of his cup. "I thought it was nice," he said quietly.

Seth dropped his head into his hands, groaning sorrowfully, but Sandy and Kirsten exchanged delighted glances.

"Ryan thought it was nice," Kirsten caroled.

"Even better. Ryan _said_ it was nice." Sandy stood up, raising his mug of chocolate. "You shared your feelings with us, kid. I'd say this calls for a toast. To Ryan Atwood! Still a man of few words, but meaningful ones."

"Sandy--" Ryan protested. He squirmed, blushing furiously. The red deepened to scarlet when Kirsten kissed his cheek.

"To Ryan," she echoed. Nudging her son, she prompted, "Seth?"

"Yeah, yeah. To Ryan." Seth waved his cup listlessly. Then, noticing Ryan's discomfiture, he grinned and sat up. "I mean, to Ryan Atwood, orator extraordinaire, and effusive lover of Hallmark-style holidays." He chugged the rest of his cocoa. "Speech! Speech!" he exclaimed wickedly. "Oh, wait! You already gave one, didn't you?"

Ryan glared at him. "Seth--" he growled.

"Now, now, Ryan. That is not a Thanksgiving-y tone of voice."

"No? How about this one?"

"Okay, no, that one is worse."

Sandy chuckled, his eyes dancing merrily. "Aw, sweetheart, our boys are squabbling."

"I know," Kirsten beamed. "Isn't it wonderful to have them home?" She dropped her head on Seth's shoulder, simultaneously squeezing Ryan's hand, but her radiant expression dimmed slightly. "I just wish you two didn't have to leave again so soon."

Seth draped a consoling arm around his mother. "Cheer up, Mom," he urged. "You've still got the Munchkin to pamper. Also to put in Pampers, which, as Summer would say, ewww, so yeah, a mixed blessing there." Recalling his earlier diaper-changing duty, Seth shuddered dramatically before he continued. "Anyway, Ryan and I will be home again soon. It's only a few weeks until Chrismukkah."

Kirsten brightened. "That's true! It is." With swift efficiency, she slid open a drawer in the coffee table, pulled out a tablet and pen, and shifted back in her seat, ready to write. "In fact, we might as well start making our plans while we're all together. Seth, do you have your flight information? Ryan, I know we don't have to worry about travel plans for you, but when is your last final? And Summer and Taylor be joining us, won't they? Let's see, we can move Sophie out of the nursery into our bedroom, and--?"

"Honey!" Sandy interjected. "Aren't you rushing the season a little bit? We should finish enjoying Thanksgiving before we move on to Chrismukkah."

"Sandy, you know it's more complicated this year with the boys off at school! Besides, this is Sophie's first Chrismukkah and Ryan's first Chrismukkah in Berkeley. I want it to be perfect. Now, we can put the tree right in front of the window, but we'll have to find a good place to get a buy one. Something with soft needles, I think—maybe a Douglas fir. No, a Balsam would be better." As she spoke, Kirsten began writing feverishly. Her family watched, amused and amazed, while her neat script filled the page. "I wonder if the cut-your-own farm we used to go to is still open. Remember how much fun that was, sweetheart? Oh, you boys would love it--"

"What, with the axes and the manual labor and "Timber!" and the possible loss of limb? Yeah, I don't think so, Mom. Hey . . . how about some more cocoa?"

Ignoring her son, Kirsten frowned thoughtfully. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "We need a stocking for Sophie, and a new family portrait with all of us! And we should get new outdoor lights and decorations, Sandy. The ones we used in Newport won't work on this house. It needs more color, I think—maybe some red and gold instead of all white. Don't worry though, Seth. We'll still put up your rooftop reindeer . . . But I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Right, Mom, you are. So . . . Thanksgiving! What about more of that scrumptious pumpkin pie? I think I could manage a fourth piece. Dad? Ryan? You in?"

Seth started to get up, but Kirsten caught his elbow, simultaneously, flipping to a new page.

"Before we can plan anything else, I need to know your schedules, boys. Seth? You have made your reservations already, haven't you, sweetie?"

Raising his hands in surrender, Seth sank back on the couch. "Sorry, guys," he sighed. "I tried to slow her down, but you know The Kirsten when she's in Manager-Mom mode. There's no stopping her . . . Yes, Mommy dearest, I already made my reservations. I'll be flying home on the nineteenth, seat 14A, Continental Airlines, seat arriving at 2:40 p.m., gate 26C . . . Okay, I made up the seat, gate and time, but the date is right. I don't have the rest memorized. Does that mean I'm fired?"

Kirsten blushed. "All right," she chided, "I know you all think I'm silly, but I just want Chrismukkah to be as wonderful as Thanksgiving has been. So you are coming home on December 19, Seth?" He nodded, and she jotted the date in a column labeled with her son's name. "Ryan? What about you?"

Ryan didn't answer. The Cohens all looked at him expectantly, but his eyes were downcast, studying the circle his thumb made as it traced the rim of his mug.

"Kid?" Sandy prompted. "Don't you know yet when you'll be ready to come home?"

Ryan took a deep breath. "Actually--" he set his cup precisely on a coaster, keeping his gaze fixed on the coffee table as he spoke. "I'm, um, not going to be home, or—here for Chrismukkah this year. Well, not for Christmas anyway."

Four seconds of stunned followed his announcement. Ryan licked his lips nervously. His voice had a brittle edge when he spoke again.

"My mom—Dawn—called and, well, she asked if I could spend the holiday with her this year."

"Oh," Kirsten said numbly. "Oh."

"It's just that . . . her boyfriend is scheduled for a cross-country haul so he'll be on the road and her boss is closing the diner over the holidays. So she'll be by herself. And she just sounded so lonely . . ."

"Ryan."

Sandy placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. At the touch Ryan glanced up, his expression pleading.

"She's been doing so well, you know? Not drinking, staying clean--"

"You don't have to explain. Dawn is your mother. If you want to spend Christmas with her--" Sandy swallowed hard before he continued. "We'll miss you, but we understand. Don't we? Kirsten? Son?"

Seth jabbed his spoon into the bowl of shaved chocolate, stirring the contents pointlessly. "I guess," he muttered. "But it sucks."

"Don't say 'sucks', Seth." Sandy forced a smile, but no one responded to his weak joke. Sighing, he kneaded the back of Ryan's neck. "Sorry, kid. It's just tough to imagine Chrismukkah without you."

Ryan ducked his head. Then he turned to Kirsten, brushing her arm with his fingertips. Reluctantly, she met his gaze, her lips crimped tight, her eyes, like his, a clouded, hollow blue.

"I don't want to go," Ryan admitted softly. "But if I don't Dawn will be all alone, and I'm afraid . . . She's been trying so hard, and she's still . . ."

Kirsten nodded, blinking back tears. "Your mother. I know. It's just—this is Sophie's first Christmas, and not to have one of her big brothers there--"

"Sophie is eight months old, sweetheart," Sandy chided gently. "She doesn't understand anything about the holiday. So we can just celebrate after Ryan gets back, can't we Seth?"

"Right." Seth yanked his spoon out of the bowl, scattering flakes like chocolate snow. "After all," he declared with strained enthusiasm, "one of the joys of Chrismukkah is that it lasts more than one day. Hence, more cookies, more eggnog, more dreidels, more presents. So. We'll just exchange them on, what, the 26th? The 27th? When exactly will you be home, dude?"

Ryan shook his head absently. He didn't answer, his attention still fixed on Kirsten. "I don't want to ruin anything for you," he said. "Dawn . . . she is my mom. But--" Pitching his voice lower he added, for Kirsten alone. "You are too. If it really bothers you—

"Oh, Ryan!" Kirsten touched his cheek tenderly. "No. No, of course, you should go." Her voice quavered, but she managed a wan smile. "Seth and Sandy are right. Chrismukkah is our family holiday and we make the rules. So we'll just wait and celebrate when you come home."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**The Empty Box (2/4)**

"Damn."

Ryan woke abruptly. He wasn't sure if he had heard the expletive or muttered it himself, but he knew that his cramped legs ached, and he could feel streaks of alien morning light assaulting his face. Groaning wearily, he rolled over, only to smash into something solid and scratchy. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He pushed himself away, almost panicked, before he remembered: it was only the back of the worn corduroy couch, his too-short makeshift bed in Dawn and Ron's apartment. 

Ryan wasn't in his dorm, or his comfortable room at the Cohens.

He was in Albuquerque. And it was Christmas morning.

His first Christmas with his mother since Chino and A.J., since hurling fists, hurtful words, and the sirens and sodden sobs that Ryan remembered instead of carols.

But all that was in the past. This time would be different. 

Dawn was different now. 

Ryan knew that. He could see how hard she was trying, fumbling at motherhood, overwhelming him with impromptu hugs, offering him her sobriety as a desperate, long-overdue gift. Her face would light up, dazzling and pathetically grateful for any anemic smile that he could spare in return.

It thrilled Ryan to watch her, but it hurt and scared him too. Her happiness seemed so fragile, as if he could destroy it with a single rough touch.

"_You don't have to be the parent anymore. You're with us now."_

Sandy's words echoed, unbidden, through Ryan's mind. For an instant, he was back in Newport with Sandy's strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, making him feel protected, giving him permission to be young, freeing from responsibility for anyone but himself. Of course, Sandy had been talking about Marissa, but even then Ryan realized that the words applied to Dawn too.

It didn't matter though.

Whenever he was with his mother, Ryan slipped instantly into his old role. That much wasn't any different this time. He did have to be the parent. He had to take care of her.

Heaving a sigh of surrender, he started to sit up. Sometime during the night, his restless writhing must have pulled his sheet off the sofa cushions. Ryan could feel the coarse upholstery prickle against every bit of bare flesh—his arms and shoulders and the skin exposed when his t-shirt rode up. With his eyes still clenched shut, he tugged the bunched fabric back down, swinging his legs off the couch and rubbing the sting away. He sat for a minute, savoring his last moments of solitude, listening. Through the open window, he could hear people laughing outside. Further in the distance, mission bells peeled—Seth, Ryan thought dryly, would claim that they had a Spanish accent—and, somewhere closer, metal clanged angrily against metal.

It sounded like pots clattering.

Ryan opened his eyes, confused.

The noise, louder now, was coming from the kitchen.

Cocking his head curiously, he slipped off the sofa and padded across the narrow hallway. Dawn was standing in front of the stove, spatula in hand, an inadequate frill of apron tied over her pink robe. Her back was to him, but Ryan could see her twisting knobs back and forth, and he could hear her short, hissing huffs of breath.

"Mom?" he called warily.

"Ry!" Dawn spun around, startled. Shame and disappointment chased each other across her face. "You're awake already? Aww shit, kiddo! And here I wanted to have breakfast all ready when you got up this morning! Kind of a Christmas surprise, you know?"

"Breakfast?" Ryan squinted, focusing with difficulty. On the counter, he noticed a mixing bowl, a plate of grated cheese, and four eggs. An opened package of bacon, half-empty and slick with grease, sat beside the sink. Ryan's gaze widened as he turned back to his mother. A slow smile warmed his eyes to a soft, summer-sky blue. "You mean you're cooking?"

Dawn shrugged sheepishly. "I was tryin'. You'd think I'da learned something from Nick at the diner, huh?" Her lips crimped and she jabbed the spatula backwards, like an accusing finger. "But these burners . . . I can't get the damn things to light and—Oh hell! I woke you up, didn't I? I'm so sorry, baby!" Her eyes glistened with hopeless tears. "Here I want it to be perfect, and I'm just spoilin' our Christmas together."

"No, you're not. Ma, really. You're not. It's okay."

"Really?" Dawn pleaded, scrubbing at her cheeks.

Ryan rubbed away a stray tear with his thumb. "Really," he assured her. 

"But breakfast--"

"Will be terrific."

"Well, maybe. If I can ever get it cooked." Dawn managed a twisted, rueful grin. "I told Ron we should buy a new stove. This one came with the place, and I swear it's older than dirt. But mostly he's on the road and I just eat at the diner, so . . . Oh, hey! Wait!" Spinning around to the refrigerator, Dawn yanked out a plastic bag and flourished it triumphantly. "At least I got you bagels, Ry! Kirsten told me you liked 'em. I forgot to ask your favorite kind so I bought cinnamon-raisin and chocolate chip." An abrupt, worried frown puckered her brow. "Those okay? I figured, they sounded like the sweetest."

Ryan thought wistfully of fresh bagels at the Cohens: plain or salt or sometimes garlic. He lowered his gaze, pretending to palm some lint off his sweatpants. "Those are great, Mom," he said.

Dawn beamed. She rummaged happily back in the dairy bin. "Oh, and Kirsten said that you liked cream cheese, so I got that too—strawberry flavored! Here, Ry! Heads up!" 

Ryan caught the package she tossed to him, smiling ruefully at her elation. "How about, we eat the bagels later, Ma?" he suggested. He put the cream cheese aside, half hiding it behind the toaster. "You've got everything ready to make bacon and eggs. We should have those first."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Dawn's defeated grimace returned. "I was gonna make you an omelet, baby—Kirsten said you like 'em, and Nick gave me his recipe—but then the damn stove--"

Ryan moved past his mother to study the appliance. He lifted the grate, adjusted the burner cap underneath, and turned the knob. Flames flared up promptly. "It was off-center, that's all, Mom," he explained quietly. "If it's not on right, the gas won't ignite."

"I knew that, Ry! Swear to God, I did! I just--" Flushing with humiliation, Dawn fumbled with the limp ruffle on her robe. "I forgot, that's all. Damn. Bet nobody at the Cohens ever does stuff like that, do they?"

"Only all. The. Time." A nostalgic chuckle escaped before Ryan could catch it. He leaned back against the counter, his gaze unfocused and full of fond memories. "Kirsten took cooking classes a couple years ago, so now she tries all these fancy recipes. But she still gets lost in the kitchen sometimes. Last summer, she was making sauce and she scooped out a tablespoon of oregano. But she forgot to put the shaker top back on, so when she went to add a little more, all the seasoning in the jar fell into the pot. Sandy banned her from the spice rack for a month. Then on Seth's last birthday she decided to make his cake by herself, and somehow she mixed up the salt and sugar. You should have seen Seth's face when he took the first bite . . ."

"Kirsten did that?" Dawn marveled. "But, Ry, she's so smart and everything."

As if from a distance, Ryan heard the brittle note in his mother's voice. It sounded thin and jagged, like a crack forming in crystal. He swallowed, trying to summon the right response. "Anybody can make a mistake, Ma," he said softly. "Tell you what. Why don't I help you here? We can make breakfast together." 

"God, Ry! You're so sweet! What did I ever do to deserve a son sweet as you? But I don't want you to hafta work. I was gonna make everything for you, baby."

"I know you were. But it'll be fun, cooking together."

"You think?" Dawn asked uncertainly.

"Sure it will." Unable to face all the yearning in his mother's eyes, Ryan glanced around. He gestured toward the pan of bacon. "I could take care of that while you get the eggs started. You know you hate it when the grease starts to sputter."

Dawn shuddered. "Damn right I do. Always sounds like a snake hissing. Gives me the willies."

Gently taking the spatula that his mother still held, Ryan turned to the stove and began working. "Speaking of snakes," he said, over his shoulder, "I thought I heard that Ron had a big one. Where is it anyway?"

"Don't worry, kiddo." Her laughter trilling, Dawn nudged Ryan's side. "It's not hidin' under the couch or anything. I couldn't stand that monster, so when me and Ron decided to move in together, I told him no way I was havin' it in my home. Nope, I said; he could have that snake or he could have me."

Ryan separated the strips of bacon and adjusted the flame beneath them. "And Ron chose you," he observed. "Smart man."

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. He chose me. How do you like that?" Dawn bit her lip thoughtfully. "First time any guy in my life ever put me first—well, 'cept you, Ry. You always did. Still do. Like right now . . ."

"Ma," Ryan protested. 

Embarrassed, Dawn gave a rusty cough and busied herself cracking the eggs. "Course," she admitted, "Ron didn't exactly get rid of the snake. He keeps it down at his friend Louie's garage. But at least I don't have to live with it, right?" She brushed past Ryan as she got a carton of milk from the refrigerator. On her way back she paused, cupping his cheek longingly. Her gaze seemed to devour him. "Damn, baby, it is so good to have you here for Christmas. Have I told you that already?"

"Once or twice," Ryan replied with wry understatement. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he relaxed into her touch. "I'm glad you wanted me here, Ma," he said.

"Yeah? You are? Honest?" Quick tears spangled Dawn's lashes, but she blotted them with her palm. "Hey, you know what we need while we work? Some Christmas music!" Scurrying into the hallway, she turned on the radio. Instantly, loud strains of "Jingle Bell Rock" filled the small apartment. "They been playin' the damn stuff on this station since Thanksgiving." She giggled, raising her voice to be heard over the song. "I got sick of it, but now I'm in the mood—come on, Ry! Sing with me!" 

Ryan shook his head. "You sing," he urged. "I'll just listen."

"Oh, you! Party-pooper!" Dawn swatted his arm playfully. Then, her hips swaying, she erupted into the refrain, whisking the milk and eggs together in time with the music.

Ryan watched her, his lips curved in a melancholy smile as he tended the bacon. 

It all felt so strange. In his mind, Christmas morning was the soft swoosh of Kirsten's silk robe and her gentle laughter. It was Sandy, mimicking Stallone as he schmeared the bagels and Seth, his mouth full, lecturing everyone on the history of Chrismukkah, rushing them through breakfast so they could "Open the presents, presents, and more presents!" 

This year Christmas would be Sophie too, round-eyed with infant wonderment, experiencing every magic moment for the very first time.

And Ryan wasn't there to share any of it.

Instinctively his gaze slipped across the hall, to the large, artificial tree Dawn had insisted they buy. It dwarfed everything in the apartment except the wide-screen TV, and she had decorated it with extravagant strings of lights, with tinsel and gaudy ornaments. Around its base, she had even placed a red, plastic train set. 

Watching the three cars chug around, endlessly repeating the same pointless circle, Ryan felt a cold ache, a desolate sadness that sighed "Too late." He would have loved that tree and that train set so much when he was six, or eleven or even fourteen. 

He loved Dawn for giving it to him now. 

But it wasn't what he wanted anymore.

Ryan's mind drifted to the night before when she had taken him to a "closed-for-the-holidays" party at the diner.

"This is gonna be so much fun! I finally get to show off my baby!" she had caroled, squeezing his hand as they headed for the door.

Ryan had stiffened uncomfortably. "Ma. Could you not?" he had pleaded. "The baby stuff, I mean?"

"All right, kiddo." Dawn had agreed. She had studied him with unabashed pride. "My number one guy, then. That any better?"

Taking a deep breath, Ryan had smiled weakly. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Sure."

The party had been loud and smoke-filled. Except to snag a drink—"See, Ry? Just a coke, that's all!"—Dawn had barely let go of his arm all evening. She had pulled him from group to group, blithely interrupting conversations.

"Everybody, I got someone I want you to meet. This is my son, Ryan," she would announce, patting his chest possessively. "He's a freshman at Berkeley. Full scholarship too! Say hello, Ry! Hell, bet he could say it in three other languages if he wanted to! Ryan's the smart one in the family. He got his pretty blue eyes from me, but damned if I know where he got those brains of his!"

Each time, Ryan had nodded politely, embarrassed and gratified at the same time. Each time he had wondered when and how he could escape.

Once, when Dawn excused herself to go to the restroom, he had slumped wearily into a deserted back booth. An instant later, Chloe, glittering in a gold mesh blouse, had slid in beside him. 

"Hi," she had said softly. "Saw you looking a little trapped over here. Your mom layin' it on pretty thick tonight?"

"A little," Ryan had conceded dryly.

"Yeah, I figured. All she's talked about since Thanksgiving is you coming to spend Christmas with her. I swear, she's been on the phone to the Cohens every night tryin' to find out your favorite colors and if you're allergic to anything and what you like to eat now. This is a really big deal for her, Ryan." 

"I know." Ryan had sighed, absently twisting his watchband.

Chloe had covered his hand with her own. Leaning over, she had pulled him into a deep, secret kiss. "Since Dawn will be back in a minute and my date might be watching, I guess this time we can't do anything more than this," she murmured into his mouth. "But I want you to know, Ryan Atwood, you? Are the best." She had gotten up then, her eyes twinkling mischief, her fingers trailing over his crotch. "Best son, too!" she called as she strolled away.

Ryan had grinned reflexively. His smile faded, though, while he waited for Dawn to return. He couldn't help wondering: if he was the best son, why did he resent being here with his mother? 

And shouldn't a mom know her child's allergies, his favorite color and foods?

Kirsten knew those things about him.

"Ry? Hey, earth to Ryan!" Dawn waved an egg-streaked spatula, her importunate voice dragging him back to the present. "I was thinkin'. How about we eat our breakfast in the living room so we can open presents at the same time? Whaddya think? Wouldn't that be fun?"

Her face glowed, pink as her bathrobe, and she bit her lip eagerly.

Ryan couldn't resist. She looked so young, so happy and hopeful.

"You sound just like Seth," he teased. "He can never wait to get to the gifts either. I don't know how he's going to make it until the day after tomorrow."

Dawn's glad flush faded a little, but Ryan, busy draining the bacon, didn't notice. He set up the TV trays while his mother served the food, carrying both plates and coffee cups into the living room with practiced ease.

"You're really good at that," Ryan observed, watching her with admiration. 

"Sure am. That's how I get the big tips at the diner—well, that and my killer smile. Just like yours, kiddo." Dawn chucked Ryan under the chin and he blushed, laughing. Then she scurried over to the tree, scooped up a pile of gifts and deposited them on the floor next to his chair.

"Mom? All these are for me? I figured some of them were for Ron . . . "

"Nope, they're all for you, baby! Don't worry, I didn't go into hock or anything. These are nothin' big. I figured you already got everything that you need now, right? With the Cohens, I mean."

Ryan swallowed, dropping his head so that his mother wouldn't see how right and how wrong she was.

"So these are, you know, just for fun. Now hurry up and eat before your eggs get cold!"

Without looking up, Ryan nodded obediently and picked up his fork. He finished his breakfast in near-silence while the radio segued from one Christmas song to another and Dawn hovered, chattering about the fun she had shopping "for my number one guy."

"This was great, Mom," he murmured at last. He put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a bright green paper napkin. "Thanks. Thank you for doing it."

"Aw, hell, Ry." 

His mother's sigh startled Ryan. Glancing over, he saw her picking the crimson nail polish on her thumbnail. Her own omelet sat congealing on her untouched plate.

"Ma?" he prompted carefully.

Dawn shrugged. "You don't have to thank me. I'm the one. I should be thankin' you." She swallowed hard. Then she straightened her shoulders, flashing a ragged smile. "Anyway, time to open your presents, kiddo!"

"Ladies first." Retrieving his overnight bag from beside the couch, Ryan pulled out a bright gold gift-wrapped package.

"But, Ry you weren't supposed to get me anything! I told you, you comin' here would be my Christmas present."

"I wanted to," Ryan said simply. He handed her the box. "Go ahead," he urged. "Open it."

For just a second, Dawn hesitated. Then, chortling with delight, she ripped off the glossy paper. "Ooh!" she breathed as she removed a finely knit cardigan, baby blue and embroidered with flowers formed of seed pearls. She pressed one sleeve against her cheek. "It's so soft! It's beautiful, Ry! I love it."

"Kirsten helped me pick it out," he admitted. His mother's face fell and Ryan added hastily, "The size, I mean. I'm lousy at that and I didn't want to get it wrong. You think it will fit?"

Dawn's eyes sparkled. "Let's find out!" Pulling the sweater on over her flimsy robe she stood up to twirl into a fashion model pose. "So, whaddya think?" she demanded.

Ryan studied his mother—the faded blonde hair that tumbled around her face, her hopeful blue eyes rimmed with smudged mascara that she had forgotten to remove the night before, the candy-cane printed apron that peeked out beneath the new sweater, the way her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. 

"I think you look beautiful, Ma," he said fervently.

Her eyes misted, and Dawn stood for a moment, softly fingering the tiny beads. Then she came over, cupped Ryan's face and tipped it up to kiss his forehead.

"Thanks, kiddo," she whispered. Taking a shaky breath, she plopped down on the couch next to him. "Now—your turn!" she exclaimed abruptly. "Just . . . don't expect too much, okay?"

Dawn kept up an anxious commentary while Ryan opened his gifts: a paperweight shaped like a soccer ball ("I thought it was real cute, and Kirsten told me you were still playin'"), an oversize coffee mug that read "Architects Have Big Plans" ("Kirsten said that's what you're studyin', and I know how much you love coffee, Ry"), a stress ball ("'Cause Kirsten thinks you worry too much—and look! The ball changes color when you squeeze it! Go ahead! Try it! See?"), and a pen and pencil set, imprinted with the Berkeley logo ("Now, I know Kirsten said you do your papers on the computer, but you must write somethin' by hand! And I just couldn't resist buying these. I'm so proud of you, Ry, goin' to college, makin' such great grades and all. Who the hell woulda believed an Atwood could turn out so good?")

At last Ryan had just one gift left to open. He grinned at his mother's eager expression when she put the box in his arms, but then he tugged off the lid. Between one breath and the next, his face went dangerously still.

Inside was a hooded sweatshirt labeled "University of Hard Knocks."

Dawn pulled out the garment when Ryan made no move to touch it. 

"You can wear it when you work out! Kirsten said you have a punching bag in their garage, so see? It's perfect." She laughed, pointing to the 'o' in 'knocks,' which was shaped like a boxing glove. "And you know, when I saw this, Ry? I thought, hey, how do you like that? Only school we both graduated from! It's our—whadda they call it? Our Alma Mater."

Ryan's head shot up. He blanched, his jaw tensing.

Oblivious, Dawn shook out the sweatshirt and held against Ryan's chest. "I got an extra-large 'cause I figured you'd want it loose--"

"Don't," he rasped, shoving the shirt away.

"What? What's wrong?" Bewildered, Dawn stared at Ryan. The hoodie dangled, limp in her hands. Then, very slowly, realization drained the last trace of joy from her eyes, leaving them shamed and stricken. "Oh shit," she moaned. "Shit, baby. Don't look like that! I never thought—It was supposed to be a joke!" Wadding up the shirt, she crammed it back in the box. "God, I'm so sorry, Ry! I was thinkin' 'hard knocks' just meant 'hard times', you know? Not like your dad, or A.J., or all those other assholes that I let beat on you . . . Swear to God, I would never--"

"I know that." Ryan's voice, rusty, barely audible, had to force out each word. "I know you wouldn't do that, Ma."

Tearing off bits of tissue paper, Dawn twisted them viciously between her fingers. "I shoulda realized it wasn't funny," she whispered. "But . . . I don't know. It's just that—it took me a long time, but I felt like I finally learned something, turned my life around. And you, you've come so far, Ry! I mean look at you! So I guess I thought . . . maybe we shared that, at least a little . . ." Her voice wavered, clouded, and evaporated, like water trickling onto desert sand. She slammed the lid back on the box, crushing it. "I'll get rid of this."

"No," Ryan muttered thickly. He took a breath, summoning a shaky grin, and reached out to stop his mother. "You know what? I'll keep it, Ma."

Dawn looked startled. "You don't have to do that, Ry."

"But you're right. We did kind of graduate from the same school. And anyway, Seth will get a kick out of seeing me wear it."

Ignoring Ryan's outstretched hands, Dawn pulled the sweatshirt back out and unfolded it. She studied its cocky slogan with disgust. "You think?" she asked uncertainly.

"Oh, trust me, Ma. Seth will love this."

Dawn pleated the navy fleece between her fingers. "But Sandy and Kirsten," she murmured. "I don't want them to think I don't take it serious—what I put you through all those years."

A name formed on Ryan's lips, but before he could say it, his mother amended, "Trey too. I regret it every day, baby, what I did to you and your brother."

"I know."

Dawn's voice grew small and very old. When she glanced up, her gaze was the dull gray of shame. "You think you can ever forgive me, kiddo? Not just this. I mean—all of it."

"Ma?" Ryan tipped Dawn's face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. He smiled gently. "I have forgiven you. I'm here, right?"

Dawn turned her face to kiss the palm he held against her cheek. "Yeah," she said, "you are."

They stood motionless for a moment. Only the radio, playing the last strains of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" broke the silence between them.

At last Dawn sighed and turned to the mess of torn paper on the couch. "Better clean this stuff up, I guess." She picked up a discarded bow and then let it fall. "I'm sorry, Ry," she mumbled. "This Christmas . . . it's not like the ones in Newport, huh?"

Ryan swallowed. Unable to come up with a reply, he simply shrugged. "I don't live in Newport anymore, Ma."

"No, that's right. You're in Berkeley now. And so are the Cohens." Dawn shook errant strands of hair out of her eyes. "How do you like that?" she marveled. The words sounded strained, both jealous and grateful. "You go up there to school, and they move right along with you."

"Not _with_ me, Ma," Ryan objected. "I told you. They just wanted to live in their old house again."

Dawn eyed him shrewdly. "Yeah. Sure," she said. Her voice thickened and she bent down to gather the discarded wrapping paper. "Anyway, it's good that they're there. I mean . . . it must be nice for you to have them so close and all. In case you ever get . . . homesick . . . or anything."

Before he could stop himself, Ryan nodded. "It is nice," he admitted, not even aware that he was speaking out loud.

"Yeah, I figured. And there you are, goin' to Berkeley just like Sandy and Kirsten did. Like one of those, whaddya call, 'em—legends, or something. Hell, I don't even know the right word for it, do I?"

Ryan looked up, alarmed, at her fraying laugh. "Ma? Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. Yeah! Hey, it's Christmas, Ry! 'Course I'm okay! I just . . . I miss Ron, you know. And he said to call him—yeah, right about now . . . so I'll just--" Jamming the papers she held into a trash can, Dawn flicked her fingers vaguely. "Be right back." She started to leave, then turned back to add earnestly, "Don't go anywhere, Ry, okay?"

Ryan mustered a pinched grin. "Where am I gonna go, Ma?"

For a moment, Dawn looked flustered and he felt ashamed. Then she rallied, kissing the top of his head and skimming his cheek with her own.

"Yeah, well, just . . . I'm gonna make a phone call and then, tell you what? We'll turn this into a real Christmas!"

She waved a brittle promise and disappeared into her bedroom.

Left alone, Ryan folded the rumpled sheets on the couch. He stacked them in a neat pile, ready for their use that evening. Then, glancing down the hall warily, he reached inside his backpack and removed a small bag. Very carefully he pulled out a bud vase. It was ivory, slim and veined with pale blue. He'd seen it in the window of a small native shop two days before while he was wandering aimlessly, waiting for Dawn to get her hair done. Ryan had felt compelled to buy it. 

For some reason, it reminded him of Kirsten, but it wasn't until he sat alone in Dawn's living room that he realized why. 

The vase resembled one that Kirsten had kept on her dresser in Newport, always holding a fresh flower, next to a photo of her mother.

Like so much else, all that had shattered in the earthquake. 

The picture itself had been salvaged and re-framed but now it stood alone on a shelf in the Berkeley master suite. 

Kirsten had never replaced the bud vase. Maybe, Ryan thought, she had never found the right one to honor her mother.

His lashes lowered pensively, Ryan studied the one in his hands. One fingertip traced its delicate filigree--a single line, he realized, that swirled over and around, looping and searching until it discovered itself again.

Ryan already had another gift for Kirsten, wrapped and ready to open when he got back to Berkeley.

But he wanted her to have this present too.

All at once, for some reason, that seemed very important.

Ryan wanted—no, he _needed_--to get this vase to Kirsten now, while she could still open it on Christmas day.

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

The Empty Box (3/4)

**The Empty Box (3/4)**

For the fifth time, Kirsten adjusted the same crystal star on the tree. It flickered in the firelight, winking sapphire and silver and dazzling white, but none of its brightness was reflected in her eyes. With a sigh she stepped back. Her empty gaze swept the room dejectedly.

"Honey, come on. Cheer up," Sandy urged. Moving behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "This may not have been the Christmas we imagined, but the house looks amazing, dinner was wonderful, and Ryan called just like he promised. I know you miss him. We all do, but he's fine. And he'll be home soon."

"Just two more days. I know." Kirsten sighed again as she sank into her husband's embrace. "And I know I shouldn't begrudge Dawn this time with him. She's working hard to stay sober, and I want Ryan to have a good relationship with her, I do. He needs that. But I can't help it, Sandy. It just seems like Dawn already had her chance. Ryan is our son now, and it doesn't feel like Christmas without him."

Seth looked up from the dreidel he was spinning aimlessly across the coffee table. "You're right, Mom," he agreed. "What's a holiday without Ryan's festive grunts and glares?"

"Cohen!"

Summer, who had been cuddled against him, shifted far enough away to elbow Seth's ribs, scowling.

"Hey!" He clutched his side indignantly. "That's what Ryan does, okay? It's part of our tradition." He turned to his parents in appeal. "You know what I mean, don't you guys? I overdo the visions of sugarplums and jingle-all-the-way thing, and Ryan grumbles and rolls his eyes at me. He's like the Donder to my Blitzen, the fa to my lalalas, the ying to my yang. Oh, and by the way, Summer—ow!"

"Yin," Taylor corrected as she entered, carrying a tray of cookies from the kitchen.

"Um . . . Say what now?"

"It's 'yin', Seth," she explained, setting the tray down. "Not 'ying'. And personally, I don't think Ryan is a 'yin' at all. He embodies more 'yang' principles. You know, action, motivation, heat . . . masculinity . . . heat . . . Ohhhh. My." Taylor's eyes lost focus. Her voice drifted into dreamy incoherence and she dropped down on the ottoman, fanning herself and making faint, mewing sounds.

"Okay, Taylor . . .Taylor?"

Seth snapped his fingers and she blinked, roused from her reverie.

"Hmm?"

"Well, first of all, TMI there, TT."

"What?" Taylor bristled, lifting her chin. "Seth Cohen! That is ridiculous! I did not say anything remotely personal!"

"Not so much in words, but we all got what you meant with that long, smoldering 'Ahhhhhhh!' Also, you repeated 'heat' twice."

"I certainly did not! Summer, tell him!"

Summer shrugged an apology. "Actually," she admitted, "you did."

Taylor blushed. "I did? Really? Oops. Sorry." She glanced sheepishly at Sandy, who looked amused, and Kirsten, whose expression remained remote and desolate. "It's just that, well, Ryan is so—"

"Hot, masculine and motivated," Seth groaned. "We heard, thanks very much. But what I want to know is, if Ryan has those qualities, which makes him 'yang', and 'yin' is supposed to be the opposite, how exactly would you describe me?" Swiveling around, he squared his shoulders and assumed his best superhero expression to plead his case to Summer.

"Hmm." She scrutinized him, her eyes dancing wickedly. "You really want me to answer that, Seth?"

Across the room, Sandy chuckled. He hugged Kirsten closer and wagged his eyebrows at his son.

Seth scrunched up his face, considering. "Yeah," he replied. "Maybe not so much, no."

Only Kirsten failed to join in the laughter. Seth gave the others an apologetic "I tried" shrug, snagged a cup from the tray on the coffee table and waved it at his mother. "So . . . this eggnog I made is great, if I do say so myself. Which I do. Want some, Mom?"

Kirsten shook her head. Removing herself from Sandy's embrace, she glanced at the clock and smiled wearily. "No thanks, sweetie," she said. She brushed her son's cheek with a dutiful kiss. "I appreciate all of you trying to make this feel like Christmas. You've been wonderful. But it's late and I'm tired. So if you'll excuse me, I think I'll just go to--"

"No, Kirsten!" Taylor cried. "You can't!"

Kirsten whirled around, startled at the vehement tone, and Seth and Summer stared in surprise.

Taylor flushed, uncharacteristically speechless, but just for a moment. "That is . . . I mean," she stammered, "You shouldn't go to bed yet, Kirsten! It's not even eleven-thirty. And, well, Seth, isn't it Cohen tradition to stay up until midnight on Christmas, so you don't waste one single minute of the holiday?"

"Um . . . no," Seth said slowly. "It's not."

"Well, it should be! Don't you think so? Sandy?"

Wrenching his anxious gaze away from his wife, Sandy pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know, now that you mention it, Taylor, I'm surprised Seth never made that one of his Cohen Chrismukkah Celebration Rules."

"Come on, Dad. They're not _rules_," Seth muttered. "They're just guidelines, that's all." He frowned, spinning his dreidel again as he mulled the idea. "Although," he admitted, "now that I think about it, staying up until midnight should be one of them, at least--"

"Exactly!" Taylor interjected triumphantly. "It should be! So we'll start it right now!"

"Whoa there, T.T! I was about to say 'at least on the nights when we're really celebrating Chrismukkah.' Which we're not tonight, remember? What with Ryan hundreds of miles away, decking the halls with his mother and all."

Taylor's mouth tightened with reproach. "Of course I remember, Seth!" Her expression softened and she continued sadly, "I hate him being away from us too. But do you think Ryan would want us all moping and feeling sorry for ourselves because he's not here? He would hate to think that he spoiled our holiday. You know he would, and I, for one, do not intend to make him feel guilty for spending a few days with his—with Dawn! So . . . oh, I've got an idea!" With fresh enthusiasm, she jumped up, pulling Seth and Summer along with her. "Why don't we gather around the fireplace and sing carols the way people always do in the movies? Who knows 'Do You Hear What I Hear'? I realize it's not exactly a carol, but I totally love that song. Or, wait! I could teach you all a French Christmas carol! Let's see, I know 'Douce nuit, sainte nuit'—at least the first verse—or 'Les Anges dans nos--'"

"Taylor? Taylor!" With an effort, Kirsten stemmed the girl's gushing enthusiasm. "Sweetie, I don't think singing is a good idea. Sophie is asleep and I don't want to wake her."

Taylor's mouth popped shut. She looked stymied, but only for a moment. "Oh! I'm sorry, Kirsten! I forgot," she confessed. "But we can sing very, very softly--like a lullaby, so if she hears us, she'll just go right back to sleep! Sandy, I have heard that you have an absolutely wonderful voice! Why don't you lead us? All right, everybody. Put down your cups and let's gather round the fireplace. Come on! Just remember now, sotto voce!"

Kirsten opened her mouth to object, but Taylor grabbed her elbow and propelled her towards the hearth. "Please? Just a few carols," she begged. "Sandy, you pick one."

"All right, let's see . . . What about--?" Stopping abruptly, Sandy patted his pocket. He reached inside, fumbled with something and then drew his hand back out. His lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "Actually, Taylor, I have a better idea. So we won't risk waking up Sophie. How about exchanging presents instead? Well, one present anyway."

"Really? A present? Oooh yes!" Releasing Kirsten, Taylor clapped her hands silently. "Absolutely, Sandy! A present is much better than carols! All right, everybody, let's sit back down! Go! Go on now!"

With blithe insistence, she waved Kirsten, Seth and Summer toward their seats. They went slowly, gazing back at Taylor with identical expressions of bewilderment. She flashed a small, Mona Lisa smile in response. Obeying her own order, she perched on the edge of an armchair, folded her hands and crossed her ankles. Except for her slight shiver of excitement, she was the picture of a prim schoolgirl. "Sit down, Kirsten," she urged. "Seth? Summer? Hurry up. Sandy is waiting."

Seth rolled his eyes. Leaning over as though to whisper in Summer's ear, he confided, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Stand up, sit down, sing, don't sing--Ryan does know that she's insane, doesn't he?"

"Cohen!" Summer scolded, despite her own obvious confusion. Frowning quizzically, she returned to her place on the couch and tried to tug Seth down next to her. He resisted, shaking his head and still mouthing "In. Sane."

Taylor heaved an exasperated sigh. "Do not be such a Grinch, Seth!"

"Me? What? A Grinch?" Seth bridled, drawing himself up to his full height. "May I remind you that I, Seth Cohen--"

"Seth Ezekiel Cohen," Sandy amended solemnly.

"Right. I, Seth Ezekiel Cohen, am the creator of Chrismukkah, überholiday extraordinaire? I am definitely not a Grinch!"

"Well, you're acting like one!" Taylor retorted. "Now sit down and let your father give his—that is, the—present. Personally, I love presents, Seth. I thought you did too."

Summer yanked the hem of Seth's sweater and he plopped down, almost landing in her lap. "Well, yeah, of course I love presents," he admitted as Summer pushed him off. "Especially when they're for me." His eyes brightened. "Wait, Dad—is this present for me?"

Sandy stroked his chin, as if contemplating some serious legal issue. "Is it for you?" he mused. "I'd have to say . . . Yes, it is, son. And . . . no. It's not."

"Ah, I see. Yes and no. Right. Thanks for that not at all bewildering answer, Dad."

Sandy grinned and tapped Seth's head lightly in passing. "Patience, my son, patience. All shall be made clear in good time."

"Aaand, now he's Yoda." Seth turned his attention to the brightly wrapped packages under the tree. "So, which one are we going to open anyway?" He pointed to the largest box, a bulky rectangle covered with green and gold plaid paper. "How about that ginormous one?" he suggested eagerly.

"Nope. This particular present isn't in the room. I have to go get it."

"Honey, no," Kirsten objected, catching her husband's wrist as he headed for the door. She had been listening to the banter silently, but now she looked up, her face both anxious and pleading. "I thought we agreed not to open any gifts until Ryan gets home."

Sandy kissed the tip of her nose. "We did," he conceded. "But we're going to make an exception, just for this one."

"Sandy, really, I'd rather not--"

"It's from Ryan, sweetheart. Special delivery."

"Oh!"

"And he gave me strict instructions to have you open it right now." Smiling widely and raising his index finger in a 'Just a second' gesture, Sandy retreated from the room.

"What on earth?" Kirsten wondered, staring after him.

"Yeah. What on earth?" Seth's brow furrowed with speculation. "The plot, as they say, thickens. Ryan didn't tell me about any special present that he was sending. Taylor?" His voice grew suspicious. "Did he mention this to you?"

Ignoring Seth's question, Taylor bounced on her seat. "Isn't this exciting?" she demanded, adding a giddy little shimmy. "I adore Christmas surprises! Do you realize that every great holiday movie ends with some kind of surprise? Think about it. _**White Christmas**_ and _**It's a Wonderful Life**_ and"—She broke off, interrupting herself. Her voice rose to a glad trill. "Oh! Look! Sandy is back!"

Moving gingerly, as though carrying precious cargo, Sandy reentered the room. He cradled a medium-size box in his arms. It was wrapped in shimmering silver foil and a blue velvet bow bobbed on top. A crystal bell attached to the ribbon chimed merrily with each step.

"Huh. Well, this kills my theory," Seth muttered to Summer.

"What?" she whispered.

"I kind of figured Dad was going to walk in with Ryan. You know, that he'd be the special delivery himself."

He shrugged, disappointed, and Summer squeezed his hand.

"Aw, Cohen. Ryan would never leave his mom alone on Christmas . . ."

"No, I know. But look at that! Three days away, and he's forgetting everything he's learned about Chrismukkah. That wrapping?" Seth pointed an accusing finger at the package in his father's arms. "That's wrong right there. Mom does not get the Hanukkah colors; Dad and I do. Ryan should know that by now."

"Hush, son." Giving Seth a quick, reproachful glance, Sandy walked over to Kirsten. He paused to smile tenderly at his wife. Then, with great care, he set the package on her lap.

"Oh, it's lovely," Kirsten murmured. She fingered the ribbon almost reverently. A wistful smile played on her face, but after a moment it vanished, overwhelmed by bewilderment. "But, Sandy, it's so light! I can't imagine what can be inside." She lifted the package, holding it beside her cheek and gauging its weight.

"Aren't you going to open it, Kirsten?" Summer prompted.

"In a minute." Kirsten shook the box gently, tilting her head to listen. "I can't hear anything," she reported. "Do you suppose there's a note inside? Maybe Ryan wrote a Christmas message for us."

Her comment seemed to dispel Seth's disgruntlement. He rallied and some of his normal exuberance returned. "A message? As in written with words? Ryan Atwood? Yeah, no, I don't think so, Mom. Although that would be a Chrismukkah miracle. Anyway, don't just sit there guessing. Open the box! Here, want me to do it for you? I happen to have gift-unwrapping super powers."

"Cohen!" Summer swatted his grasping hands away. "Ryan sent that to your mom!

Kirsten hugged the package to her. "Yes, he did. And I will open it myself, thank you."

She took a deep breath. For a long moment, she simply studied the present, as if searching for something in its mirror-like surface. At last she untied the ribbon. Taking her time, savoring each instant, she coiled it around her finger, and set the tidy roll aside. Then, very slowly, she removed the embossed paper. "So pretty," she breathed, holding it up to admire it as it glimmered, star-like, in the light.

"Mom!" Seth groaned. "Come on! Get to the good stuff!"

"This is good stuff, sweetie," she reproved. Folding the foil neatly, she placed it beside the ribbon. "It was wrapped so beautifully. The least I can do is take a minute to appreciate all of Ryan's time and effort."

"Okay, fine. Time, check. Effort, check. So now you've appreciated them. Minute's over. Open the box, Mom!"

Kirsten laughed fondly at her son's impatience. Then she glanced back at Sandy, who stood behind her. He nodded his support.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," he urged.

She smiled, took a deep breath, lifted the lid . . . and stopped. The cardboard cover dangled limply from her hand.

"Well, Mom? What is it? What's Ryan's big mystery present?"

Kirsten shook her head slightly, but she didn't answer. Her gaze remained locked on the box's contents.

"Mom?" Seth prompted again. "You are going to tell us, right? Mom?"

At last Kirsten looked up. Her eyes changed shade as she blinked, bright blue to the misty twilight gray of questions. Confusion and traces of disappointment chased each other across her face.

"I don't understand," she said. "There's nothing in this box."

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

The Empty Box

**The Empty Box**

Summer jerked to attention, stunned. "What? Kirsten, are you sure? There's really nothing inside?"

"Like—nothing at all? That doesn't make any sense." His face creased with confusion, Seth moved to sit on the arm of his mother's chair. "Can I?" he asked, giving the box a wary poke.

Kirsten stared at him blankly.

"Check it out," Seth explained. "Just out of, you know, curiosity."

Shrugging numb assent, Kirsten sat back. Her hands fell limp to her lap as Seth confiscated the package. First he squinted inside from a distance. Then he searched more thoroughly, plunging his head down as far as it would go. "Yep. Nothing," he reported when he reemerged. "No present, no note, not even any tissue paper. Okay, this is really cryptic, even for enigma-Ryan. It's just an empty box." Shaking his head in defeat, Seth returned her non-gift to Kirsten.

"Oh, I don't think Ryan would give your mother an empty box, son," Sandy protested. "Let me see that, honey . . . Kirsten?"

He touched his wife's shoulder, rousing her.

"What? Oh. Go ahead, Sandy."

Kirsten sighed vaguely as he lifted the present from her unresisting hands. At the same time, Sandy beckoned Taylor over to join him. She scurried to his side, prompt as a doctor summoned for a consultation.

"Ryan," she declared, lifting her chin decisively, "is much too methodical and considerate to gift-wrap a package without making sure that the gift is in it. You're absolutely right, Sandy. There must be something inside. We just have to find it."

Nodding grave agreement, Sandy positioned the package between them. They both scrutinized it, taking their time, studying every surface. Their faces were set in identical, judicious frowns and they tapped their chins in unison.

Seth straightened, immediately on red-alert. "Summer," he hissed. "Something is up. I'll bet that--"

Before his son could finish, Sandy dipped one hand inside the box, lifted it out and opened it, sniffing audibly as he did so. "What do you think, Taylor?" he asked. "Do you smell juniper?"

"Hmm . . ." Taylor took a deep breath, held it and exhaled slowly. "Yes," she replied. "Yes, Sandy, I do. And I believe I also detect a whiff of thistle and . . . feathergrass, I think. Maybe even a little sage."

Seth's mouth popped open, then just as abruptly snapped shut again. Beside him, Summer wedged herself under his arm, cuddling the way she did when they watched episodes of "The Valley" together.

"Taylor? Sandy?" Kirsten demanded. "What on earth are you talking about?" She reached up, attempting to reclaim her box. Her fingertips grazed the bottom but Sandy managed to shield it from her grasp.

"Just a minute, sweetheart. I want to check something . . . You're right, Taylor. That is unmistakably silver sage."

"Okay, Taylor's insanity must be contagious," Seth whispered to Summer. "Now it's infected Dad."

Ignoring them, Sandy wrinkled his nose. "And cayenne," he added, sneezing. "There's definitely an aroma of cayenne in there too." He nodded at Taylor, who parroted the gesture, and they both turned, beaming, to Kirsten. "No question about it, honey," Sandy announced. "This box isn't empty. It's full of fresh, desert air."

With an impish grin, Sandy returned her package to Kirsten. She received it warily. Lines of doubt etched her forehead, and she eyed her husband as if he had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.

"You're saying," she concluded slowly, "that Ryan sent me a gift-wrapped box full of . . . air? Why would he do that, Sandy?"

Taylor broke in before he could answer. "Oh, but this isn't just any air, Kirsten!" she exclaimed. "Smell it! This is clean, bracing, healthy desert air, straight from New Mexico!"

"From Albuquerque, in fact," Sandy paused, his eyebrows wagging like Groucho's. "And Ryan . . ." He turned to Taylor, who was hugging herself, her lips crimped over a smile. "Well, he didn't so much send it as bring it. Right Taylor?"

She bobbed her head. "Right, Sandy."

"He brought it . . .? He brought it?" In an instant, Kirsten's eyes widened, bright with realization. "Sanford Cohen! Ryan is here, isn't he? Ryan? Ryan, where are you?"

"Ha! I knew it!" Seth jumped up, bumping the coffee table and sending his dreidel spinning wildly. "Okay, come on out, buddy!" he ordered. "You've had your joke! Show yourself! Now would be good!"

"Better do it, Atwood!" Summer warned. "Seth will just hunt you down otherwise!"

A long, breathless moment passed. Then the door opened and Ryan stepped inside. He paused on the threshold, biting his lower lip until it escaped into a lopsided smile.

"Hi," he said softly. One hand lifted in a small, self-conscious wave.

"Oh!" Kirsten gasped. She gave a wordless gurgle of delight. Before he could move, she darted across the room and threw her arms around his neck. For a second, Ryan froze, dazed by the intensity of her welcome, but in the next breath, he relaxed. Closing his eyes, he returned her embrace.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered as he buried his face against Kirsten's shoulder.

"You're home! Oh, Ryan, you're home—and it is! It's still Christmas day!"

Kirsten tightened her grip, holding him as if she never intended to let him go.

At last Seth, coughing pointedly, tapped his mother's shoulder. "Um, Mom . . . other people here too, remember? Me, for example? And Summer?"

Kirsten glanced at him, blinking back joyful tears. "Of course, sweetie. I'm sorry. I just--" Her voice broke. With a final, light kiss, she released Ryan. "Thank you," she murmured before she stepped away. "I love my present."

"Present? Ha!" Seth stifled a grin as he confronted Ryan. "Okay, that?" he observed, indicating the discarded box. "Seriously, dude--cheapest Chrismukkah gift ever. But, you know, I suppose . . . welcome home anyway." Pretending reluctance, he grasped Ryan's hand and started to shake it. Then he rolled his eyes, groaned "What the hell," and pulled him into a one-armed hug instead.

"Um. Thanks?" Ryan replied, freeing himself awkwardly. "Hi, Summer. Merry Christmas."

"Back at you." She greeted him with an affectionate kiss. "So," she observed, adding a playful swat on the arm. "Quite an entrance you made there, Atwood. Very dramatic."

Ryan flushed, embarrassed. "Yeah, well, I had help," he admitted. He nodded toward Taylor, who clung to his arm, preening, and Sandy, whose warm smile broadened with pride.

Seth's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the three of them. "So . . . Dad and Taylor, huh? Well, considering the grand gesture, I figured a Cohen man must have been involved. But hey!" He jabbed a finger at his own chest. "Cohen man right here, Ryan! Your peer. Your compadre. Not to mention the resident creative genius. Why wasn't I in on this?"

"Um . . . Sorry?"

Ryan shrugged an evasive apology, but Seth persisted, following him as he brought his duffel bag into the room.

"Dude, come on! I'm supposed to be your wingman, remember? And who's the grandmaster of grand gestures anyway? You know I would have come up with something better than that desert air/empty box bit. Like, like . . . okay, wait, here's an idea! I could have gotten a refrigerator carton and wrapped it up with you inside!"

Ryan shot him a not-in-this-lifetime glare. "Right. And that, Seth, is why you weren't in on the plan."

"Besides, son, face it." His dancing eyes dancing belying his solemn voice, Sandy threw an arm around Seth's shoulders, "I happen to be a much better actor than you are. Also--" he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, "you suck at keeping secrets."

Seth reared back, spluttering with indignation. "Okay, whoa! Stop right there! There are so many things wrong with that statement, Dad. First of all, in your dreams. Second, don't say 'sucks'! And third, I do not!"

Sandy's eyebrows disappeared into his rumpled hair. "Really?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "What about the surprise party you planned to throw for Summer's birthday? I seem to remember that you told her all about it, oh, what was it? A week before?"

"Two," Taylor told him.

"She forced it out of me! You know how persuasive-slash-threatening she can be!"

"Hey!" Summer protested, punching Seth's shoulder.

He clutched the spot protectively. "See?" he demanded. "Like that!"

"All right, all right, all of you! That's enough." Laughing happily, Kirsten claimed Ryan's hand from Taylor and led him to the sofa. "Sit down, sweetie" she urged. "Oh, it is so wonderful to have you home! Are you hungry? I could heat up the ham, or some sweet potato casserole. And we have those corn muffins you like--"

"Um . . . that would be 'had', Mom. I kind of ate the last ones." Seth ducked behind Summer, cringing in anticipation of his mother's response.

"Seth Ezekiel! I told you to save those for Ryan!"

"It was an accident! I didn't notice that there weren't any left until, well, there weren't any left."

Chuckling softly, Ryan made room on the couch for Taylor, who snuggled next to him. "It's okay, Kirsten," he said. "I'm fine."

"Mmm. You certainly are," Taylor purred into his ear. She licked the lobe, one light swirl for each word. Then she sat back, all innocence, as a slow flame burnished Ryan's neck. "So," she teased, "you're not hungry at all? For anything?"

"No. That is, I mean--" Ryan swallowed, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the innuendo. "Maybe later," he mumbled.

Kirsten studied his flushed face, mystified. "Well, if you're sure . . ." she said dubiously.

Taylor's prim façade vanished. She giggled, and Ryan blushed again. He ducked his head, but when he felt Kirsten's eyes on him, he glanced up curiously. She seemed to be studying him. As she did, the delight that had lit her face since his arrival began to fade. Her gaze clouded and fine lines creased her brow and pinched the corners of her mouth.

"Ryan--" Pausing, she sat down beside him and patted the back of his hand. Her fingers barely skimmed his skin. "Sweetie . . . I'm thrilled that you came home early, but I just wondered . . . Did everything go all right . . . in New Mexico?"

Her eyes sought his, rephrasing the question. Rimmed with urgency, they asked, _"Did everything go all right with your mother?"_

"It was fine," Ryan said quietly.

He smiled reassurance, but Kirsten still studied him, unconvinced.

"Really," he insisted. "It was."

"But then I don't understand. I thought you were going to spend four days with Dawn."

"I know. That's what we planned, but then she--"

Ryan stopped. Through the baby monitor, they could hear the unmistakable sounds of Sophie fussing in her crib. Kirsten rose, sighing an apology, but Ryan caught her arm.

"May I?" he offered.

"Oh, dude. No," Seth groaned. "Have you forgotten the first rule of big brotherhood? Never, I mean ever, volunteer to take care of the Sophster when she cries. You know what you may have to do in there? And it could be even worse than usual—the Munchkin ate creamed peas this evening! They're disgusting enough going in, but coming out . . ." He broke off, grimacing.

Ryan grinned. "Yeah, thanks for the warning. Care to be my wingman now, buddy?"

"Ah, no." Shuddering vehemently, Seth shielded himself behind an armful of throw pillows. "I mean, I totally would, but sadly, my unique powers are useless in this situation. Sorry, buddy. You're going to have to tackle Mission Little Sis alone."

Sandy laughed. "Translation: Seth is afraid to change a diaper."

"Hey!" Seth protested. "I am not afraid, Dad, I just happen to have a very sensitive nose, all right? Tell them, Summer."

Summer tweaked Seth's nose and he yelped.

"Yep," she reported blithely. "It's sensitive."

Sophie's cries grew louder, and Ryan got up, sending an indulgent mock-glare in Seth's direction.

"Wait, Ryan," Kirsten called, as he started to leave the room. "Why don't you bring Sophie back here with you?"

He tilted his head, one hand on the doorjamb. "You don't want me to put her back to sleep?"

"Not tonight." Kirsten scanned the room. Her eyes lingered tenderly on each person there before they settled, content, on Ryan. "We still have ten minutes of Christmas day left," she said. "I'd like us all to share it."

Ryan's expression didn't change, but every edge softened and his gaze, like Kirsten's, melted into a liquid blue. "I'd like that too," he confessed quietly.

They exchanged a brief, private glance. It shimmered in the air between them, like a filament spun of grace and gratitude, before Ryan nodded and turned to go.

Kirsten watched him leave, her smile slowly dissolving. As soon as he was out of earshot, she wheeled around to face her husband. "Something is wrong, Sandy" she whispered. "Ryan never would have come home early otherwise. Something must have happened—Dawn must have done something—and he doesn't want to worry us." Her voice vibrated with tension. "Oh God, Sandy, if she hurt him again--"

"She didn't, honey." Sandy drew Kirsten to him, rubbing her rigid back. "In fact, Ryan coming back early—you could call it Dawn's Christmas gift to him."

"And to us," Taylor added. "Well, I mean, by extension anyway."

Kirsten frowned, still stiff in Sandy's arms. "I don't understand."

"Me either," Seth whispered to Summer. "Once again the plot, as they say--"

"Thickens. I know. Quiet, Cohen."

"Dawn called me this morning," Sandy explained. "She asked if I could help her change Ryan's flight reservations so that he could come home today. She said--" He paused. Pulling Kirsten closer, he glanced over her head at Seth, including his son in the conversation. "She said that Ryan tried to hide it, but she could see how much he missed being here with us. So she decided to let him come back early. She told me . . ." Sandy smiled to himself, his gaze fogged with wonder. "He deserves to spend Christmas with his real family."

A momentary hush enveloped the room, allowing his last words to resonate.

"Oh!" Kirsten breathed, almost too low to hear. "Dawn said that? His 'real family'?"

Sandy nodded. He scanned the mantle, where five well-stuffed stockings hung. "Yes, honey, she did," he answered gravely. "Dawn understands . . . this is where Ryan belongs."

For a few minutes, no one said anything. In the stillness sounds drifted through the baby monitor, muted but moonbeam-clear: a faint rustle of cloth, Sophie's hiccupping cries and, between them, the low, soothing cadence of Ryan's voice.

"Shhh," they could hear him murmur. "Shhh. It's all right now, Chiclet. I'm here"

They listened, rapt, while Sophie's sobs quieted. At last only a wordless whisper reached them.

Kirsten turned to Sandy. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked quietly.

The question was vague, but Sandy understood what she meant.

"Honestly?" he said. "I didn't want to get your hopes up, sweetheart. Every flight was booked solid for the holiday. We weren't sure we'd be able to get Ryan a seat before tomorrow. The poor kid wound up spending most of Christmas day on stand-by at the airport, waiting to see if he could make it home."

"But he did!" Seth blurted triumphantly. Springing up, he flung his arms wide, almost hitting Summer. "Ryan got home in time for Christmas—well, a few minutes of it anyway—and . . . okay, wait for it! His mother actually made it happen! You know what this is, guys? This? Is--"

"A Chrismukkah miracle!" Summer drowned out Seth's last words as she batted his hand away from her face.

"Hey! That's my line!" Seth pouted for an instant before his exuberant grin reappeared. He sat down, giving Summer a forgiving hug. "But fair is fair. Since you have been known to save Chrismukkah, I suppose you're entitled to announce this year's miracle."

Summer rolled her eyes. "Wow. Thanks so much."

"You're welcome," Seth replied, ignoring her sarcasm. "And also, props to Jesus and Moses. They did it up big this year. Who knew that Dawn Atwood would ever stop thinking about herself and--"

A door opened upstairs and he swallowed the rest of his comment, warned by Kirsten's urgent "Seth!" A few moments later, Ryan reappeared. He cradled a tousled but wide-eyed Sophie. Despite one leftover tear, her cheeks were dimpled by a smile, and her plump fingers gripped Ryan's thumb tightly, trying to angle it toward her mouth.

"She was dry and clean," he reported. "I think she just heard all of us talking and felt left out." Easing himself onto the couch, he propped Sophie on his lap so that she could see everyone. "Was that it, Chicklet?" he asked. "You just wanted to be with your family?" Ryan nuzzled her hair, nearly muffling his last words. "I understand. I did too."

Across the room, watching, Kirsten caught her breath. Instinctively she searched for Sandy's hand.

Babbling baby empathy, Sophie reached up to pat Ryan's chin. He blinked at her, surprised. Then he threw back his head, alight with laughter. His eyes dancing, he boosted his sister higher in his arms, bouncing her gently until she squealed with delight.

An incandescent smile lit Kirsten's face. She nestled against Sandy's side, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "Now," she said, "it's really Christmas."

"True dat, Mom," Seth agreed with a solemn nod.

Sandy's eyebrows shot up. "True dat, son? Even I know that phrase is passé."

"Not passé, Dad. A classic," Seth claimed. "Also, appropriate. We now have—let's see, about six minutes left of a true Cohen Christmas day." Snatching a candy cane from the tree, he hung it around Summer's ear as an exclamation point.

"Ew! Seth—sticky!" With a scowl, she removed the candy and thrust it, hook-end first, into his mouth. "And I hope there's hair on it now," she added fiercely.

"Mmff. Okay, not the way I like to eat these, Summer. This end? Is supposed to be the handle. Still good, though. Also, no hair." Sucking the candy cane blithely, Seth turned to Ryan. "So, dude. Confession time," he declared. "Whose idea was the whole empty box bit? And how exactly did little Miss Smug over there get involved?"

Taylor lifted her chin pertly. "That is Ms. Smug, thank you, Seth." She settled herself next to Ryan, linking her arm through his and cupping one of Sophie's elf-slippered feet in her palms. "And I merely happened to be in the kitchen with your father when Dawn called."

"So in other words, you eavesdropped on their conversation."

"I _overheard_ their conversation. There's a difference."

"Not in the Seth Cohen dictionary," Summer piped up. "Eavesdrop, overhear, snoop, wiretap: it's pretty much all the same to him."

Seth clutched his chest, looking wounded. "I have never wiretapped, woman! Anyway, we're talking about Taylor here."

As he listened to them banter, Ryan felt his whole body relax. Hiding his smile behind Sophie, he shifted so that he was cushioned everywhere: by the back of the couch behind him, Kirsten's favorite throw pillows on his left, Taylor's body, supple and warm beside him, and, against his chest, Sophie's soft, flannel-swathed form, smelling like powder and innocence. Beyond that, less tangible things in the room bolstered him too: the familiar repartee, the sense of connection, the trust.

The unguarded acceptance.

The love.

It felt perfect—simple and wished-for, and right.

But so unexpected.

Ryan still marveled at how he had come to share it.

"So, Ryan . . .? Hey, c'mon, buddy, I want the truth now. Don't tell me you were responsible for that whole empty-box, smells-like-desert-spirit act."

Seth's voice snapped Ryan back to the conversation. Like a schoolboy caught daydreaming, he jerked his head up.

"Um . . . no," he mumbled around two fingers that Sophie suddenly stuck into his mouth. "That was—uh, Sandy?"

Seth rounded on his father triumphantly. "Dad? I knew it!" he chortled. "That bit had Sanford Cohen, thespian-at-large, written all over it . . . Get it? Attorney-at-large? Thespian-at-large?"

"Got it," Sandy groaned. "And actually, son--"

Kirsten chuckled, interrupting her husband. Her gaze, amused and tender, was following Ryan's vain attempts to appease Sophie. He blew bubbles on her neck, jiggled her on his knee, and walked his fingers up and down her back, but nothing worked. All Sophie seemed to want was to fit her fist in his mouth.

Without glancing away from that scene, Kirsten clasped Sandy's wrist. He stopped, understanding immediately, and waited while she got one of the baby's pacifiers.

"Here," Kirsten said, handing it to Ryan. "This should settle her down. Unless you'd rather I took her now?"

Ryan shook his head, tightening his grasp on the baby. "No thanks, Kirsten. I'm--" Sophie tapped his teeth, sending an infant Morse code that belied his next word. "Fine," he concluded wryly. With a grateful sigh, he offered Sophie the pacifier, but even though she sucked it gleefully, she continued to play with his mouth, first poking the corners, then thrumming his lips.

Ryan shrugged, smiled helplessly, and gestured for Sandy to go on.

He did, holding forth as if he were in court. "So . . . as I was saying before your little sister rudely interrupted me, 'The Mystery of the Empty Box' was actually joint effort," Sandy admitted. "Having your mother open a present from Ryan before he came in was my idea--"

"But then," Taylor continued, "I suggested that we could build suspense and make the surprise even better if the box turned out to have nothing inside. Except—and I loved this part—desert air."

Seth rolled his eyes. "You contributed that idea? Why am I not surprised?"

"Come on, Seth," Summer chided. "It was cute. You're just jealous because you weren't in on the act."

"Thank you!" Taylor exclaimed. She waved Sophie's foot at Summer, beaming and making the baby giggle. "It _was_ cute, wasn't it? Of course, it was hard to convince Mr. No-Fuss here to go along with the plan at all." Swiveling around, she pretended to scowl at Ryan. "He thought he should just walk in normally."

"Imagine that," Summer laughed. "Ryan Atwood, choosing the understated approach."

Taylor heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I know! He just has no sense of drama. He thought the whole idea was silly! I kept telling him that you would all--"

"Um, Taylor? 'He' is right here," Ryan interjected. "And that wasn't the problem anyway.

Seth hold up one hand, blinking with disbelief. "Wait. What? You mean you didn't think it was silly? Desert air in a box? Dude . . ."

"No I did. But--" Ryan's voice faltered, but it rallied again as he turned to Kirsten. "I was afraid that you'd be upset. I mean, unwrapping a gift, and then finding nothing there. Besides, I really do have a present for you."

Getting up, Ryan gently deposited Sophie in her father's arms. Then he retrieved his duffel bag and pulled out a small, tissue-swaddled bundle. For a moment he stood, holding it loosely, as if weighing the value of what was inside. His face clouded and he bit the corner of his lip before, at last, he offered Kirsten the package. She rose to accept it.

"I'm sorry it's not wrapped," Ryan said. "But I wanted it in my carry-on bag, and airport regulations . . ."

Kirsten's eyes grew moist. "Oh, Ryan. Sweetie." She cupped his cheek with one hand, holding her gift in the other, summoning his gaze with her own. Ryan glanced up from behind his lashes. He flushed, warmed by what he saw, and his expression cleared.

Satisfied, Kirsten sat down, eagerly fumbling with the layers of tissue paper.

"It's not much," Ryan warned. Crouching next to her, he watched as she struggled with the last piece of protective tape.

Just as they'd done earlier, Seth and Summer crowded near, but now Taylor and Sandy joined them, equally curious. Even Sophie leaned forward in her father's arms, pointing and prattling wordless questions.

"Anything there this time, Mom?" Seth teased. "'Cause that just looks like a wad of tissue to me. And since Ryan has become such a prankster now . . ."

Kirsten shook her head, chuckling, but she didn't bother to answer. She simply stripped off the last crumpled paper to reveal the vase. It rested in her palm, swan-white and delicate, laced with lines that reflected the clear blue of her eyes.

"Oh," she whispered. She covered her lips with one hand, her face suffused with a rush of memories. "It looks like the one I used to have. The one I kept by my mother's picture back in Newport." She paused, suddenly amazed. "Ryan? Did you remember that?"

Twisting the edges of a piece of tissue paper, Ryan bobbed his head in an awkward nod. "It was nice—the way you always had a fresh flower there. So when I saw this in a shop in Albuquerque . . . It wasn't very expensive, Kirsten, but I thought . . ." He shrugged, sucking in the corners of his mouth.

"You thought how much this would mean to me," Kirsten concluded. "Ryan. It's beautiful."

He chanced an oblique smile. "Yeah?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Kirsten said. She held the vase up to the light. Just as Ryan had done hours earlier, she traced its aqua filigree with one fingertip. Her touch lingered over each curve, slow and deliberate, as if writing some message or reading one in Braille. "It's perfect, Ryan. I love it. Thank you."

Leaning over, she brushed a kiss across his brow.

Ryan blushed again, a faint red that deepened when Sandy clapped him on the shoulder, declaring "You did good, kid!" and Taylor draped her arms around his neck, murmuring a seductive _"Tu es fantastique"_ in his ear.

"Nice, Atwood." Summer nodded her approval when Ryan finally looked up. "A very thoughtful, very tangible, Christmas present, right, Seth?"

She shot her boyfriend a pointed look.

"What?" Seth protested. "The wad of tissue paper comment I made before? That? Was a joke, Summer. You know—ha-ha? Funny? I knew Ryan was giving Mom a real present this time. But this gift-giving ceremony does raise an important question." He turned to Ryan, his hands already cupped to receive a package. "What souvenir did you bring me, buddy?"

Ryan snorted, and punched Seth lightly in the side.

"Okay, that is so not what I had in mind!"

Seth's wounded yelp sparked laughter and a blur of sudden activity.

Sophie bounced in Sandy's arms and Ryan sprang up to reclaim her. As soon as he returned to the couch, Taylor wedged herself beside him, playing with the baby's curls and stroking Ryan's throat with her thumb at the same time. Summer comforted Seth with a mistletoe-kiss. Then she challenged him to a new game of dreidel, while Sandy poured fresh eggnog for everyone.

Only Kirsten remained still. She continued to study her new vase, a stream of emotions, like shadows, flowing across her face: nostalgia, reflection, tenderness and gratitude. At last, smiling to herself, she scooped up a handful of tissue paper and rewrapped the vase, swaddling it reverently. Then she retrieved the empty box from the floor. Tucking the bundle inside, she placed her gift in a spot of honor under the tree.

When she turned to sit back down, the mantle clock chimed once, starting to herald midnight.

Kirsten's gaze sought Ryan's.

"Merry Christmas," he said softly.

"Merry Christmas," she echoed. "And Ryan? Welcome home."

_**Fin**_


End file.
